The New York Marathon - Overview

Pre-race, modeling my intended clothing choice for a
picture to send to friends. I ended up adding some tape
with my name written on it to the shirt, as well as my
race number.

Hard to believe that the big day has come and gone! I ran a marathon, but it is not my intention, dear reader, to saddle you with a marathon reading session. I have a lot to say, though, so I will divide and conquer: I plan to write this post as a general overview, write a post about the people along the course next, and finish with a post to share useful tips and information with people who wish to run the New York Marathon. (This one will still be very long. Hope you're hydrated.)

To get to the start of the marathon on Staten Island, I chose to take the ferry rather than the shuttle buses provided by NYRR. This meant a southward ride on the 1 train at 6:30. The South Ferry station has a very short platform so only the first half of the train has access to it, and when the train arrived it was packed with runners. I don't think I've ever been in such a crowded car outside of Japan. People were rather quiet and meditative, but there were whoops when we finally arrived at our station at the end of the line and the conductor told us over the loudspeaker to have a great race.

I joined a sea of runners that poured into the terminal building past numerous cops, some with bomb-sniffing dogs on leashes that gave every passer-by a casual sniff. I saw two Homeland Security officers as we boarded. There were more cops on the ferry itself, and a peek out the window revealed our armed police boat escort. People around me struck up conversations with strangers. A New Zealander sitting across from me kept bouncing in his seat and grinning to himself. He started chatting with a woman from Kentucky who was here for her first marathon. She said she felt like she'd already run one, having taken her kids sightseeing all over the city the day before. I, who had spent Saturday being as immobile as possible, hoped this didn't hurt her race.

Once on Staten Island, I sat in the warm ferry building for a while before heading out to line up for the shuttle buses. There was really no established uniform and I saw all kinds of ensembles. Some people looked sleek and athletic in lycra, while others, like me, wore loose sweats. "Did those pants come with free bowl of soup, Steve?" one guy cracked, looking meaningfully at his friend's over-sized fleece pants. I spotted a girl wearing a bathrobe. I was grateful for my too-big sweatsuit and the old towel I'd brought in lieu of a blanket as I waited for the shuttle; the wind was biting and it felt much colder than it had been in Manhattan. I heard someone tell his friend that the temperature was in the high 40's, but with the windchill the "real feel" was in the mid-30s. We were wanded with metal detectors after exiting the bus and sniffed by more dogs.

Ed's photos of the leading men. We heard them being
introduced, then their starting gun, from my corral, though
we couldn't see them. 

After waiting in a long line for the very unpleasant port-a-potties in my starting area, I sat around for about 20 minutes until it was time to report to my corral. We were allowed to wear our warm clothes in, thank goodness, because there was more waiting around inside before we were allowed to start. (To put it in perspective: I left my apartment at 6:20 and did not start the race until 10:05.) Finally, it was time to walk toward the starting line, which took another five minutes. I tossed my sweats into one of the bins for donated clothing, which was overflowing, and shivered for ten minutes before we were finally allowed to start. My wave was the second of four, and my corral was the first or second one in the wave, meaning that it wasn't long after the cannon blast that I crossed the starting line and was off.

It was a very surreal feeling to set out on the Verrazano Bridge. I felt as though I was going slower than most of the people around me, but I knew I had to keep my pace in check. One woman in bright tights and a running skirt breezed by me, calling out, "On your left!" then "On your right!" to the guy in front of me as she dodged around us. I reminded myself that while I didn't know what her goals were, I knew that mine dictated a slower pace than that. I glanced at my watch often, but was dismayed to discover that I had somehow pressed the "stop" button at 58 seconds in. I asked a fellow runner for the mileage at that point and learned that my watch was only .3 miles behind. Still, I wasn't able to rely on it from then on for anything but pacing, which was slightly disorienting.

Click here for a course map. I was in the blue wave.

The bridge was peaceful (or it would have been if there weren't low-flying police helicopters on either side of us - many of the runners waved cheerfully at them), and I was glad for the chance to mentally center myself in advance of the race. I was warming up (meaning my muscles were loosening and my toes were regaining feeling) and felt good, though I had the nagging sensation that I needed to pee. I figured it was just nerves. The first mile or so of the bridge is a long, gentle uphill, and I ran it more slowly than my pace dictated--on purpose, not wanting to use any more energy than necessary--but I was able to speed up and make up the time on the long downhill that followed. Then we were in Brooklyn. It was clear, at this point, that my feeling that I needed to pull over was not all in my head, and I ended up using the very first port-a-potties on the course at Mile 3. Luckily, one was vacated as soon as I arrived at it, so I didn't need to wait in line. Between slowing down, stopping, using it, and getting back on the road, I estimate I lost somewhere around 90 seconds.

Adoring fans in Brooklyn: Mom, Ed, Dad, Jenny, and Anthony

I really enjoyed the Brooklyn part of the race. The miles, as they say, melted away. I was warm enough to pull off my warm warmers, which I tucked into my fuel belt. Each mile had a marker--which I found very useful since my watch wasn't reliable--and long tables from which volunteers handed out water and Gatorade. I grabbed a cup of water every few miles, the soles of my shoes sticking to the sugary asphalt as I did so. I spotted Ed, my parents, my brother, and a few friends jumping up and down and cheering around Mile 8. Somewhere around this point, I passed the woman in the bright tights and running skirt who had passed me on the bridge miles before. She was plodding along slowly, and I did not see her again.

Brooklyn is a huge borough; almost half the course is in Brooklyn. Our foray through Queens felt pretty short, by comparison. I still felt pretty good, but all that changed on the Queensboro Bridge. I know the overall elevation change is less than the Verrazano Bridge, and it is definitely shorter, but it felt much steeper - perhaps I was just tired. My hamstrings felt so tight that at one point I stopped along the side and did about ten seconds worth of stretching before continuing on. It seemed that we'd never stop climbing. No spectators are allowed on the bridge, so the only sounds were huffing and puffing and footsteps as the runners around me directed their focus inward. Then, at last, we were headed downhill, and we barreled into Manhattan.

My cheering section crossing Central Park.
These matching orange shirts were essential
to my being able to spot these guys during
the run.

The "wall of sound" that greets runners as they enter Manhattan is famous among marathoners, but I found the reception waiting there for us to be more tepid than the crowds in Park Slope in Brooklyn had been. I continued to focus on my pace--I felt I'd really gotten it locked in at this point--because I'd read horror stories about runners being so excited to be in Manhattan that they blasted out a few really fast miles and paid for it later. I worried I wouldn't spot my family, but my dad had climbed some scaffolding and I spotted him waving, then everyone else below him. This gave me a boost, but not enough of a boost to ignore a problem that was growing more urgent by the step - I need to pee again. I couldn't believe it--this never happens to me during races--but there was no getting around it, and so I did another mad dash off the course which cost me another 90 seconds or so. Back on the course, I passed three runners standing still in the middle of the course, shielding a woman who had fallen. Two others were helping her to her feet. Her stiff, extended leg told me it was a cramp.

There were a few long, gentle hills along First Avenue, but we got to a steep-ish, albeit short climb when we crossed the bridge to the Bronx. A man next to me muttered, "I hate bridges." One of the students I tutor had told me that he'd be watching by "a yellow church," so I kept an eye out for that but didn't spot it, or him. There is a lot of twisting and turning in this part of the course, but finally we were headed west again. I could see the Empire State building on the horizon and knew two things: 1) it was really just a long, straight shot until just about the end of the race, and 2) one of the toughest parts was still to come.

I'd passed Mile 21 just before arriving at Fifth Avenue. Most runners "hit the wall" somewhere around Mile 18, but that hadn't happened for me yet. My legs had taken on that pleasantly dull feeling they often do when I've been running for a long time but am in good shape. They hurt, but I feel sort of detached from them and have the sense that I can keep going for a long, long time. And, generally, I can, so I knew I was almost certainly going to be good for the 4+ miles. It wasn't bonking* I was worried about. It was Fifth Avenue, over a mile of which is a long, gentle-but-relentless ascent. I fell into pace with three Swedes and listened to them babble away breathlessly, mentally steeling myself. For the first third of the race I'd been holding back, and the second third I'd been running along comfortably. Now I felt myself pushing, not too hard but constantly, to keep my pace up. I lost the Swedes, but ended up just behind two very tall, bald men in matching orange t-shirts and shorts who were running back and forth across the course, waving and high-fiving fans. I stuck with them for the next few miles. I spotted my small group of cheerleaders for the last time and waved at them, then turned my attention back to holding my pace. The hill went on and on until, finally, we arrived at Engineers' Gate and entered the park on a downward slope. Finally.

At this point there were two miles to go. I'd imagined that the park part of it would be relatively easy. I know the park well, so I'd be on familiar ground, and I figured I'd be buoyed by the fact that I was almost done. But pushing hard when one is that tired is no picnic, and since I usually run around the park the other direction, there were moments when I wasn't sure exactly where I was. (I'm sure being exhausted didn't help my navigational skills.) My memory of this part of the race is, alarmingly, a little fuzzy. I was aware that there were a lot of people along the sides of the course, but I had entered what my friend Eliot refers to as the Pain Tunnel. I focused on keeping my cadence fast, and on not throwing up, which was feeling more and more like it was a possibility. I noticed that I was passing more people than I had at any other point in the race. Some of them were even walking. It's nice to pass people, of course, but I was irritated that I had to weave around them, costing me precious steps and energy. Mile 25 came and went. The last mile was incredibly hard. Markers told me that I had a mile to go, then 800 meters, then 400 meters. It wasn't until I had 100 meters left that I felt I was close to the end. I threw every ounce of energy I had into my legs and sprinted.

Cozy in my poncho

I don't really remember crossing the iconic finish line as much as I remember hitting the "stop" button on my watch, then looking around at everyone walking. I almost felt, for a moment, as though I had to keep running - it was strange after all that time that it was OK to stop. I was emitting a strange little moan with every exhale, and couldn't stop for a few moments. Because of my watch snafu, I had no idea what my final time was. Figuring I'd look it up later, I started walking. I passed a woman weeping in the arms of another runner. People were laughing, hugging, slapping hands, or else looking silent and haggard. Some were stretching. I passed a few on wheeled stretchers. Paramedics watched us walk by. Patches of cat litter on the asphalt showed me where other runners had lost their own battles with the urge to revisit pre-race nutrition; my own stomach was slowly but surely calming. I collected a medal, had my picture taken, then picked up a reflective blanket and a recovery bag containing some bottles of beverages, an apple, some pretzels, and other things. Then I sat on a curb next to an exhausted-looking man to put on my arm warmers, as I was suddenly freezing despite the blanket. This helped, but I still had to enlist the help of a friendly park ranger to open my bottle of Gatorade due to cold, stiff fingers. It tasted terrible and my stomach was still roiling a bit, but I wanted to get enough calories into my system to make it to 72nd Street where I'd meet Ed and my family and catch the train home.

The walk out of the finish area seemed to take forever. We finished around 62nd Street but had to walk all the way up to 77th before we were allowed to exit the park. Then those who hadn't checked bags were shepherded further through the never-ending walkway out of the park, where we were given bright orange, hooded ponchos with windproof outsides and fleecy insides and told to keep walking. Finally, back down at 73rd Street, we were allowed to exit the area, and I staggered two long blocks to the station to meet my family.

Drinking chocolate milk, my preferred post-
workout beverage - still too tired to take off
my poncho.

The thing about exerting that kind of effort is that even stopping doesn't help right away. My legs, feet, and knees hurt for the rest of the night, and throughout dinner and a movie on the couch and even in bed as I waited to fall asleep I couldn't get comfortable. But this is par for the course. Now, a little over 24 hours after my finish. I feel surprisingly good. My muscles are certainly sore, but mostly only when I stretch them or stand up for the first time after sitting for a while; once I've walked for twenty or thirty seconds, I feel much better. This, more than my race result, tells me that my training was sufficient.

Speaking of results, my final time ended up being 3:44, twenty-one minutes faster than my former personal best but four minutes slower than my (admittedly ambitious) goal time. A portion of that spillover, obviously, is due to my two bathroom stops. Still, I'm not sure I'd have been able to finish in 3:40 even if I'd run continuously, though I'd have gotten awfully close. I certainly debunked the Yasso 800 theory, as I was a long way from finishing in 3:27 the way my intervals indicated I would! Ed has calculated that I was in the top 10% of my age group, and the top 20% overall, which is pretty cool. Upon finishing, I was pleased to discover how consistent my pace during the race had been. My split times were as follows:

5K - 27 minutes

10K - 26 minutes

15K - 26 minutes

20K - 27 minutes

25K - 27 minutes

30K - 27 minutes

35K - 27 minutes

40K - 26 minutes

(A marathon is just over 42K, by the way.) This works out to an average pace of 8:35 per minute. Part of me is a bit surprised by how consistent I managed to stay, given the hills, but part of me expected this. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's picking a pace and sticking with it - I seem to have a knack for getting into a groove. Seeing all my splits really hammers home how tired I was; I felt as though I was running six-minute miles by the end of the race, which was obviously not the case!

With Anthony and Ed outside the 72nd Street station

I am both relieved and sorry that the marathon is already over. My brother asked me yesterday, as he watched me hobble off the train, if it was all worth it and I told him to ask me in a few days. It hasn't taken me that long to decide, however. I can already say that it was, and I would absolutely do it again (in, say, a year). I didn't experience the rush people always talk about at any point during the race, even at the end (I was too tired), but I look back on yesterday with great joy and pride. It's quite a feeling to work hard for a long time and see one's efforts pay off. Seeing so much of the city I love, and its people, on foot was certainly a phenomenal experience, as was running with such a massive group of 50,000 other runners from all over the world who all felt rather like comrades for a few short hours. And I've been moved by the enthusiasm with which my friends and family supported me over the weekend, and the heartfelt congratulations of so many people all day today. Should I have the good fortune to do this marathon again, I'll look forward not to the anxious first-time run of a newbie but the confident race of an experienced runner.

*Bonking = running out of energy/crashing and burning